I can feel them stream out of my fingers with such freedom in the current days.

So far, the days seem distant somehow when my keys were unable to utter the nonsense you now read.

Still, the days when the letters and stories I wrote to that someone feel now lost on those conversations I erased. And that's not counting the many letters I wrote in my mind, but never put down. 

This orange light is messing with my mind, it elates me and gives me illusions. I sit here noting the nuances that come with my favourite scenes of love. The final kiss seems to be the best part. I now lay here thinking I know this intimately... I don’t.

What I know too well is how to compose a scene, the mess in my mind does nothing to its basics. It is my pen the one with might, only through it my ideas are grand. There’s beauty, I know it, I felt it so that I can paint it from memory. 

I keep wanting for things to be a certain way, but then they bloom. I’m confused, I think what I make is the way I want it to be, but they’re even more than that.

I can feel in a way I thought I had lost, with my imagination in peak fluorescence.

The words of new scenes dripping of my mouth, but they might as well be doing it out of my eyes... or maybe it’s the rain – But there are no clouds.